


Once Upon A Dream

by TheRedMenace



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blanket Tag for Bucky Barnes Issues, Brief Mention of Character Not Wanting to be Alive Anymore, Eventual Relationships, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Logic, Fairy Tale Retellings, Gratuitous Allusions To Ancient Greek Lovers, Gratuitous poetry references, In Which the Author Conveniently Handwaves Away Medical Procedures, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Not Black Panther (2018) Compliant, Romantic Relationships Not Tagged, Sam's Frankly Concerning Love for Ice Spiders, Steve's Self-Worth Issues, Suicidal Ideation, Victim Self-Blaming, Wake Up and Smell the UST, and they all lived happily ever after, identity politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-10 06:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11685657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedMenace/pseuds/TheRedMenace
Summary: Once upon a time, a panther and falcon played cat and mouse.  Once upon a time, a knight stood vigil over a sleeping beauty.  Once upon a time, a broken soldier undertook an impossibly long journey to get home.Dragons were slain and fairy godmothers offered aid, and maybe, just maybe, they will all live happily to the end of their days.





	1. Enchanted Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time in a far away kingdom, a princess lay in an enchanted sleep, dreaming of her prince and of true love’s kiss…

In the golden afternoon sunshine of a fairy tale kingdom, a king paces.

He is tall and strong and proud; the picture of what a king and warrior should be.  He prowls through his office with feline grace, his intensely focused eyes glittering with frustration.

The leader of the king’s personal bodyguard stands beside the doorway, watching her liege with a calm that does not fully conceal her amusement.

It is unusual to see her king, who so prides himself on his self-control, struggling so much to maintain his composure.  Then again, that very same lack of composure is a very good indicator of how serious the situation is.  The last time she had seen the king so discombobulated, it was because he had been trying to woo the woman who became his wife.

If that is indeed the case again… well.  It will be interesting to see the reactions of the country’s elders, should the king’s consort once again be an outsider.

Then again, Okoye thinks, perhaps she is getting ahead of herself.  It is not as though the king has managed to declare his interest as of yet; if she has interpreted his agitation correctly (and they have been friends since childhood, so of course she has), T’Challa has only very recently become aware of his feelings himself.  Perhaps as recently as this morning, in fact, when they watched the _intaka_ in question take off for an early morning run through the jungle.  Okoye is quite certain she saw T’Challa swallow his own tongue.

A formidable warrior, her king; a dedicated leader, a genius engineer, and a good man.  But he is utterly hopeless at matters of the heart.  Part of that is his natural reserve, and in part it is due to the inevitable clash between public duty and private desire.  But mostly, Okoye thinks, the problem is T’Challa’s own healthy dislike of, and resistance to, factors outside of his own control.

Fortunate, then, that this king has the help and support of his Dora Milaje.  He can trust their complete discretion and their dedication to his happiness.  Moreover, he can brainstorm with them, find ways to woo the object of his affections.

Assuming, of course, that that king allows himself to believe that this relationship is something he is allowed to take for himself.

“Okoye,” T’Challa says suddenly.  “How are our guests settling in?”  
Okoye tilts her head in consideration.  “Captain Rogers hardly ever leaves Sergeant Barnes’ side.  Agent Barton and Mr. Lang have been reunited with their children.  Miss Maximoff and Senior Airman Wilson seem… restless.”  
“Restless?” the king asks, perking up like a predator scenting blood.  
“They have nothing to do, my king, except hide from the eyes of the world,” Okoye replies.  “Especially for a warrior of Senior Airman Wilson’s caliber, this must be difficult.”  
“Mmm,” T’Challa muses, rubbing his jawline.  “Yes, I can see that.  Perhaps…” he says slowly, glancing out the window toward the lush jungle.  “Perhaps if they get to know our people, our city, they will find an occupation they enjoy.”  
“I think it a good idea,” Okoye nods.  “Shall I arrange for Princess Shuri to-”  
“No, no.  I shall do it,” T’Challa interrupts before nearly running out the door.

As she follows, Okoye allows herself the luxury of a smirk.  The old saying is true; man may be the head, but woman is the neck, and she can turn him as she chooses.

 

* * *

In the harsh, white, artificial light of a medical ward straight out of a science fiction novel, a knight sits.

He wears no armor, nor does he bear any crest or shield; he has willingly sacrificed all of that.  Exiled from his country, he owes loyalty to no king, though he has pledged himself to the King of Wakanda’s service in thanks for the king’s hospitality.  But even without his title or heraldry, he remains a knight, and he sits vigil, bearing witness to this battle he cannot fight.

To an outside observer, perhaps this scene does not resemble a battle.  There are no intruders; no blows are exchanged, nor is there any siren’s song of adrenaline-fueled heroics.  There is just the lone knight in a plush armchair, ever at his post, watching over his sleeping comrade.

But this is absolutely a battle; yet another battle in the most important war the knight has ever fought.  He is not doing his duty for his country this time; nor is he fighting monstrous creatures from outer space, or his own shield brothers in a philosophical dispute gone too far.  No, this war is more nefarious, and more desperate; it is a fight for the heart, mind and soul of the man trapped in his crystalline coffin.

The doctors have tried to explain the science to him.  There is no pain, they hasten to assure him; his brother is safely entombed in a deep coma, and knows nothing of time’s passage.

The knight has slept in ice.  He remembers the dark, the cold.

He would never consider such a sleep to be freedom.  It is strange to him that his brother has _chosen_ this, considers it safety.

Then again, his brother has been dead for a very long time.  Perhaps at this point, it is easier to be dead than alive.

Perhaps he is selfish for trying to drag his brother kicking and screaming into the land of the living.  Perhaps after so many decades of fighting, of killing, of serving the powers of evil, it is cruel to ask more.  Perhaps there is no coming back from hell.

Despite the warmth of this tropical fairy tale land, the knight shivers against the echo of ice water filling his lungs, numbing his brain, sinking into his bones.

He hates that he cannot fight this battle against his brother’s damaged brain tissue and injured soul.  He hates that he cannot feed his blood into his brother, and force the magical potion that flows through his veins to add its strength to the weaker concoction in his brother’s.  He hates that there are no easy answers, that he cannot force his friend well with the strength of his wishes or the depth of his faith in his brother’s strength.

For his brother _must_ be strong, no matter what he believes of himself.  To survive the unspeakable hell he did, to endure so much horror and to come out the other side with any shred of sanity left, let alone a determination to do good, to atone…  That implies more strength and courage than anything the knight has ever been lauded for.

His brother has always been the better man.

The knight sighs, reaching out a hand to lay on the glass coffin.  It galls him that he cannot take his brother’s hand, as they used to when he was the one sick in bed.  He needs so badly to touch his friend, to feel the physical reality of him, lest he blink and discover this has all been a dream.  It hurts, to have his brother so close and yet so hopelessly far away.

Out of desperation, he begins to talk.  There are no microphones to transmit his voice to his brother’s ears.  Even if there were, the doctors have told him that his brother’s coma is too deep for him to hear.  The knight does not care.  No matter how delirious he became when he was sick as a child, he was always aware of when his brother was sitting by his bedside.  Sometimes, he is sure he remembers his friend talking to him through his fevered delirium.

_You listen to me, Steven Grant Luke Rogers…  Don’t you dare leave me, you little punk…  Stay alive stay alive stay…_

“You listen to me, James Buchanan Michael Barnes,” he whispers, clenching his fists and wishing not for the first time that he had his ma’s glass bead rosary with him.  “Don’t you dare leave me, you dumbass bastard jerk.  Don’t you dare leave me alone.  I lost you once and I ain’t doin’ it again, you hear me?  You need your rest, I know that; you deserve that.  But don’t you dare die on me.”

Steve draws a shaky inhalation as his throat tightens and his eyes fill with tears.  The bitter burn of guilt in the pit of his stomach is familiar; he has carried it since he hung along the side of a damaged train car in the Alps a lifetime ago, watching this man plunge into a ravine.  He thinks he will always carry it; he thinks it is too light a punishment for what he did and failed to do.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.  “God, Buck, I’m so sorry.  This shouldn’t have happened to you.”

The guilt flares hot, burning its way up into what remains of Steve’s heart.   _My fault_ , pulses the guilt, whispering to the beat of his heart.   _My fault, my fault, my fault…_

“I was so selfish,” he confesses, a martyr to the only church he knows anymore.  “I got you back, after Azzano, and I barely even stopped to ask if you’d go with me.  I just assumed you’d be there, like always.  You were always there, cleanin’ up after me, pullin’ me outta trouble.  And the one time you needed me, I couldn’t even return the favor.”

Steve sniffs, impatiently wiping away the tears.  It hurts to make his confession.  But is this not what he deserves?  What does this small pain matter, compared to the pain he condemned Bucky to?  He had left Bucky with no hope and no way out; he deserves everything he feels right now.

“I’m… I’m still selfish, aren’t I?” he asks, his voice small with fear and shame.  “Because I can’t let you go.  I want you back, no matter what the cost.  Is…  Am I as bad as Hydra?”

A voice echoes through Steve’s memory, warm and steadfast beneath the precise, clipped consonants.

_Did you love your friend?  Did you respect him?  Then give Barnes the dignity of his choice._

Steve huffs, leaning forward so he can rest both hands and his forehead against the glass of Bucky’s chrysalis.  It is cold, so cold; he can feel the cryogenic gasses pressing against the glass, and the chill seeps through his skin into his bones.  Perhaps he and Bucky should fall into a cold sleep together.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.  “I know you chose this.  We’ll get you better, I promise.  And when you wake up, I’ll never force you into anything, ever again.  You’ll never have to fight, okay?  Or go on the run.  We’ll… We’ll find something else.”

He tries very hard not to remember the menacing, strangely humanoid robotic voice mocking him.

_God’s Righteous Man, pretending you can live without a war…_

_Shut up_ , he whispers frantically.  

He has Bucky’s recovery to focus on; that is more than enough of a war for the rest of their lives.

* * *

In the heavy cold of absolute darkness, a shadow hides.

He was a man once, he thinks.  He is pretty sure that was once true.  He is not sure what he is now; a ghost maybe, or a memory.  Perhaps he is his own dream of who he was, or who he was supposed to be.

He does not _remember_ darkness, exactly, but he _knows_ it.  He knows this utter lack of anything; he thinks he created this darkness.  A place to hide, back in that time it hurts to be aware of.

He does not have to think about that time, here.  Here, he is safe.

He does not remember exactly why he is hiding.  Is he in danger, or is he the dangerous one?  Did he choose to come here, or was he shoved back here?

It does not matter.  Either way, here he is.

It is good here, he thinks.  There are no white-hot flashes of pain dancing in his limbs or swarms of whispers crawling in his brain like stinging ants.  Pursuer or pursued, he is alone here, and this is a relief.

Except…

He is not, he knows with sudden clarity.  He is never alone, even here.  There is an infinity outside of the darkness.  A whirlwind of hurts and howling and hurricanes of words and images that make no sense; and in that eternal, infinite storm, he is hunted.  But here in the darkness where it’s safe, he is hunter; this is where he hid the Light.

He is not alone.

He does not remember who he is or why the Light is important.  But he _knows_ his Light.  Here in the dark, where there are no words, the details do not matter.  It does not matter who or why the Light must be protected; all that matters is that he _is_ , and the Light _is_ , and they must continue to _be_.

He does not remember having a body capable of movement or of the darkness having features, but he is sitting against a wall, leaning against the Light.  The Light is small and fragile; it could so easily be broken.  It is why he had hidden the Light in the darkness in the first place, even though the Light _hated_ being hidden.  He was meant to shine, but the shadow could never bear the threat of his Light being taken from him.

He has always been greedy and selfish where his Light is concerned.  As beautiful as the Light is and as much as he knows he should surrender it so it can illuminate the world…  He cannot.  The Light is _his_ , and he cannot bear the idea of giving it up.

The Light envelops him, drowning him in alien warmth.  He gasps, clings to it like a dying man, greedily pulling that beautiful, delicious heat into his frozen core.

“Don’t go,” he whispers frantically, clinging to his Light.  “Don’t go, don’t leave me.  God, don’t leave me alone, just… stay…”  
“Never,” the Light whispers, reaching into the ghost’s chest and cradling his frozen heart.  “Haven’t left you yet, have I?  You’ve kept me safe, all this time.  I ain’t leavin’ now.”

He has no concrete physical senses here in the dark.  He knows his Light does not have features.  But he looks at his Light, and he _knows_ what he is seeing.  Clear blue eyes burning with righteous fury, long clever artist’s fingers, a voice as smooth and deep as a good scotch.

“My Light,” he whispers reverently.  “My Captain.”  
His Light grins.  “Your Alexander.”

The ghost shivers, his eyes drifting shut as his Light – his Captain – traces a finger along his jaw, the warmth setting him ablaze.

“My Shadow,” he whispers tenderly.  “My Soldier.  My Hephaestion.”

The Shadow, the Soldier shudders, the wintry ice at his core throbbing painfully at the reminder that he is the hunter, he is the darkness, he is the evil where the Light is the good.

“Hey, no,” the Light says, surrounding the Shadow with warmth again.  “Stop.  We’re both here, right?  You and me.  Like always.  Nobody can take you away from me.”  
The Shadow shakes his head.  “Other way around.  This is my head we’re hidin’ in.”  
The Light’s smile slowly slips away, his hands framing the Shadow’s face.  “We can’t stay here, you know.”

The Shadow makes a pained noise, weakly trying to withdraw from those awful words.

Why not?  Why can they not remain here, hidden and safe in the dark?  They are _safe_.  The whispers cannot reach them here; even the cold cannot freeze the Shadow solid again, not with the Light here to keep him warm.

It is peaceful here, in this darkness at the edge of the world, just out of reach of the hurricane of electricity and blood.  Why can he not have peace?  Does he not deserve it?  He does not remember what he did _Before_ , in the time of the hurricane, but he knows it was horrible, and he knows he will never be free of it.  But he can sit outside of it, here, so why should he not?  It was the only freedom he was going to get…

“This isn’t freedom,” the Light says, shaking his head and staring with serious, beautiful blue eyes.  “This isn’t peace.  This is fear.”

The Light stands.  They are standing on a narrow cliff face, a ledge barely large enough for two.  Before them stretches a shaky expanse of bridge, barely wider than their feet.  The swaying, crumbling metal bridge reaches over a deep ravine, before ending abruptly a pace before the Light’s feet.

The Shadow freezes, the ice in his soul clenching as he stares.  Snow stings his cheeks and the wind howls in his ears as he stares, transfixed, at the yawning chasm below.

He is a dead man staring at his own grave.

He shakes his head wildly, desperately trying to back further away onto the cliff.  “I can’t.  No.  Stevie, I can’t…”

His Light – his Captain – his _Stevie_ smiles, an incongruous, tiny figure dressed in a threadbare shirt and suspenders in the middle of an October snowstorm.  Tiny and sickly and God, so fucking beautiful.

Steve reaches a hand out, smiling like his own personal guardian angel.

“C’mon, Buck,” he says, voice jarringly gentle against the howling wind.  “You and me.  Or are you gonna leave me here all alone?”

Bucky stares, petrified, horrified.  There is no bridge; they will plunge to their deaths.  He cannot do this again; he will fall and he will die and Steve will not save him this time…

“Go on,” he says hoarsely.  “Just get out of here.”

_Echoes, whispers, screaming…  heated steel girders and greedy licking flames…  separated by a chasm, no way out…_

Steve smiles again and shakes his head.  Bucky knows his answer before he opens his mouth.

“Not without you,” they whisper together.

Bucky takes Steve’s hand and steps onto the bridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using Google Translate, so as always, apologies in advance for inaccuracies.
> 
> Intaka – Xhosa for “bird”


	2. Spinning Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King had ordered every spinning wheel in the kingdom destroyed. But Fate cannot be outrun…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got into identity politics in Sam's POV. I tried my hardest to be respectful, but I am not African American and cannot speak to the experiences of black America. If I've fucked up, please let me know, so I can fix it.

 

 

Overhead, freewheeling clouds dance, playing with the golden sunbeams.  Below, a panther chases a falcon through the dense, lush jungle.

They meet quite by chance.  This keeps happening, lately.  Sam would not have expected the King of Wakanda to have so much free time, but he will not complain.  Now that they are no longer actively warring against each other, Sam finds he greatly enjoys the King’s - _no, Samuel; friends call me T’Challa_ \- company.  Beneath the royal dignity and T’Challa’s own natural reserve lies an incredible intellect to rival Tony Stark, a shrewd judge of character equal to Steve Rogers, and a dry sense of humor which is entirely his own.  Sam does not know how many people get to see this side of the man or who even gets to see the _man_ beneath the mantle at all, but he is honored and grateful to be one of the chosen few.

“C’mon, Kitty, you can do better than that!”

Sam cackles as he puts on a burst of speed, adrenaline twining with enthusiasm in a potent mix.  After so long at Steve’s side it is nice, he thinks, to pit his skills against a normal human.  Yes, T’Challa has been in training his entire life in preparation for taking on the Panther’s mantle.  But he has no magical potion flowing through his veins or mythical, Inhuman abilities; like Sam, T’Challa is just a man.  After so long among the Avengers, the normality is refreshing.

Not far behind him, Sam hears T’Challa growl.  “Qalisa ngeli xesha unako, intaka encinane.”

Sam is willing to go out on a limb and assume that was not especially complimentary.

He keeps running, relishing the burn in his thighs, in his lungs.  The summer warmth - enveloping, but not oppressive - chases away the cold horror of the nightmares, grounding him in the present moment.  He is not hovering helplessly in the air; Daedalus watching Icarus tailspin, a murderer watching a man of iron plummet.  He is on the ground, and he is not fighting inevitability.

He is going to have to return to the mind healers, he knows.  He is stubborn, but he is not an idiot.  The nightmares are returning; he is jumping at loud noises; he cannot bear the weight of his wings.  He needs to get his head on right…  But not here, not yet.  Right now, he is grounded, he is safe, he is running.

A heavy weight rams into him, knocking him off-balance.  Sam pitches forward, tenses, rolls with it.  T’Challa laughs as they roll and roughhouse like children, smug when he pins Sam down, victorious.

“Fuckin’ dick,” Sam grumbles, but there is no heat in his curse.  
“Panthers always catch their prey,” T’Challa smirks.

Sam is very, very aware of T’Challa’s weight pinning him, pushing him into the warm earth.  It should feel stifling; it feels safe.  His heart is pounding.  He feels T’Challa’s breathing.  He is wonderfully, entirely _present_ in this moment.  The world is silent and still, holding its breath.

Sam is in trouble.

“You got me,” he says, and he hardly recognizes the low, husky voice as his own.  “Now what?”

There is a pause, a moment.  Heavy with possibility, with magic, with a burn in his gut that Sam has not felt in years.  A beat, a breath, and Sam dares to wonder--

“Now, we swim.”

T’Challa leverages himself up, and Sam is dizzy with the sudden loss.  His head spins, his brain reels, and he stumbles as he scrambles after the man striding blithely ahead of him as though he has not just pushed Sam’s entire world off-kilter.

Oh sweet Lucille, Sam is in _so much_ trouble.

By the time he reaches the crystal clear pool, T’Challa has already stripped off his running clothes and dived into the water, which…  Sam is completely fine with and not at all affected by.

Once upon a time, Sam remembers being able to lie to himself.  He wonders what happened to that ability.

[Steve.  Steve is what happened.]

“Are you coming?” T’Challa asks.

Sam hopes it is not obvious that his is choking on his tongue.

He strips with military quickness and dives into the water, blissfully cold against his heated flesh.  For a time, they paddle around each other, enjoying the cooldown after a long, hard run.  Eventually, they lay side by side on the arm, flat boulders, drowsy and at peace.

“What do you think of my Wakanda, Samuel?” T’Challa asks lazily, rolling onto his stomach and pillowing his head on his arms.

Sam is not distracted at all by the way T’Challa pronounces his name.   _Samuel_.  Softening the vowels, slurring the syllables until the word is smooth and warm, a caress.  He wants to be the kind of man who might belong to that name.  Wants to be soft, and smooth, and grounded in the warm earth of a country that looks like him.  Wants to yield, to turn liquid, to draw his shards together into this sound of T’Challa’s mouth - this _Samuel_.

_Sam_ might deflect T’Challa’s question.   _Sam_ might joke, might make light, might mask his true thoughts in flippant charm.  But _Sam_ is not here; to be honest, he is not sure if that person even exists anymore.

What, he dares to ask himself, might _Samuel_ think?

“Do you know much about how Wakanda is seen in black America?” he asks.

T’Challa shakes his head, his dark eyes warm and soft but intensely focused.

So he talks in what he imagines _Samuel_ ’s voice to be; honest and direct, thoughtful and solemn.  Talks about the pain and emptiness and rootlessness of diaspora, of the loss of voice and name and history.  How, in the absence of a personal homeland, cultural myths were built - we were all kings and scholars in Mali; we were Zulu warriors; we were Wakandan.  He talks about his daddy’s experience as a Black Panther.  Talks about how Wakanda has become Timbuktu and Shangri-la and Atlantis; an idealized paradise of and for black bodies where they could lay down the shackles that were their American legacy.

“We are all this to you?” T’Challa asks, thoughtful and solemn.  
Samuel nods.  “And I’ll tell you what, man.  The reality?  Lives up to the hype.”

The warmth of the boulder beneath him cannot compete with the heat of T’Challa’s smile.

* * *

Outside, clouds dance in a beautiful blue sky, freewheeling in beautiful golden sunshine; unburdened and free.

Inside, the conditions in the healers’ ward are strictly regulated - temperature, noise level, potential for proliferation of disease, access.  It is funny, he thinks, that he is more comfortable in this place that drums up so many bad memories than anywhere else in the palace, or the country.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Buck,” Steve confesses, sinking into the unexpectedly comfortable armchair that lives beside the icy coffin.  “There’s…  I’ve never been good at doin’ nothing, ya know?  And there’s nothin’ for me to do here.  I’m not Captain America, I’m a fugitive, I’m…  I’ve got nothin’, right now.  And I dunno what to _do_.”

It is strange, he thinks absently, that the longer he remains exiled, the more strongly his homeland bleeds into his voice.

Sighing in frustration, Steve stands, pacing through the small chamber like a caged panther.  He tosses an agitated glance out the window, perversely irritated by the lush jungle vistas.

He turns back to his friend, asleep in his coffin.  Steve always was in awe of Bucky’s sniper stillness, of the profound quiet and focus Sergeant Barnes could call upon in the heat of battle.  He wonders if, somewhere in the cold, his friend is calling upon that same patience now; holding himself still and waiting for a miracle.

Steve wishes, desperately, that he could perform that miracle; wishes that he could punch his way out of this mess.  Clint had jested once about _cognitive recalibration_ and oh how Steve wishes it was that easy.  But there is no place for a knight in this battle.  This is a war for magicians; molecular biophysicists and chemical engineers and neurosurgeons.  Steve does not even fully understand what the struggle _is_ ; he only knows that he cannot do the fighting this time.

He can never do the fighting when Bucky is involved, it seems.  He wonders sometimes what the point of him even is, if he cannot fight for those he loves.

“I don’t know what to _do_ , Buck,” he says again, staring blankly out the window.  “The doctors have been running tests on your blood samples.  They think they can make some kind of hormone that’ll stabilize somethin’ or other in your brain, and they think once they do that they can unfreeze you enough to deprogram the triggers.  T’Challa says his people have your full file.  I dunno how, Nat must’ve helped…  But I guess the point is, they’re makin’ progress.  They’re gonna get you back.  I just…  I just wish I could _help_.”

He feels the familiar urge to punch something.  He takes a careful step away from Bucky’s coffin, clenches his jaw, his fists.

“Wish I could feed you the serum,” he sighs.  “But they said - the doctors, I mean - that it’s bonded to my DNA, and they don’t know how to extract it.”  He laughs, sharp and bitter.  “Story of my life.  I’ve never been able to save you.”

He leans against the window, lets it take his weight as he slumps under the grief and guilt.  His heart pulses in time with the refrain that has been his constant companion since October, 1944 - _my fault my fault my fault_ …

“Why’m I still alive?” he whispers.

The question falls from his lips before he can reel it in.  He should be horrified with himself for voicing such a thought, and in a way he is.  But it is a relief, too, to let his shameful question out for once.

“I grew up knowing I’d never live long.  You remember.  Pretty sure I only made it to twenty six because of you.  I guess that’s why I was so dead set on the Army - at least then my death would mean somethin’,” he confesses.  “But I kept failing to die.  And then you fell, and…”

Steve takes a deep, shaky breath as the guilt surges up and swallows him whole.  He stares at Bucky’s sleeping face, pierced by twin pangs of profound sorrow for his brother’s death, and overwhelming awe at his resurrection [was that blasphemy, even though Bucky was the only sacred thing that made sense anymore?].

“I think I must’ve died with you,” he confesses, barely able to speak, unable to stop this horrible confession.  “It was a relief, puttin’ the plane down, letting go.  The serum was a miracle, but what the hell good was it, if I couldn’t keep you from falling?”

Steve sighs, runs a hand through his hair as he stares at his best friend’s face.  It is strange, he thinks, how peaceful Bucky looks in his frozen sleep.  He wonders if his own death was that peaceful.

He thinks he remembers, sometimes.  He knows this must be a morbid fantasy.  The healers explained it to him, shortly after he woke from his own enchanted sleep; long medical terms that meant he’d been frozen solid, essentially dead.  To think that he remembered _dreaming_ had to be a flight of fancy.

And yet.

“You were there,” he says, sure that this is real even if it is not true.  “We sat on the edge of the Grand Canyon and watched fireworks.  And it was the end of the line, but it wasn’t so bad.”  Steve bites his lip.  “And then I woke up.”

He shudders, thinking back on those awful first months in his new world, his new life.

“SHIELD threw me right back into it,” he tells Bucky.  “I didn’t mind.  Anything was better than thinking.  And I had the serum, and I was needed…  It was okay.  That’s what Captain America was made for, right?  To fight, to serve.  But now…  What now?  There is no more Captain America.   And without Cap…  What do I do, Bucky?  Who the hell am I?”

Steve hunches over, resting his elbows on his thighs as the voice of a robotic nightmare whirs to life in his mind once again, parroting his own worst fears back at him.

_God’s Righteous Man… pretending you can live without a war…_

Despite the sun-drenched afternoon, Steve shudders, ice blooming in his chest.

He knows this is the truth of himself.  He was created – _a lab experiment_ , just as Tony had sneered – for war, for fighting.  Without that purpose, what was he?  Was there any reason for his existence at all?

* * *

Once upon a time, the Asset’s memories were burned away.

And then again.

And again.

Again and again, innumerable times, until even the attempt of thought caused an echo of white-hot pain to sear the Asset’s brain; until it was nothing more than a mindless automaton for its masters.

When the Asset finally broke free, it had to relearn how to think.  It was not easy.  Images would flash through his head, contextless and meaningless.  Unverifiable images he did not understand.

_A dark-haired boy in a too-large frilly apron, standing on a kitchen chair beside his tall, elegant mother; a gap-toothed grin on his face as he helped her knead dough and listened to the folk songs of her homeland._

_Two half-grown boys curled around each other in one small bed; huddling for warmth and trying not to feel the hot ache of longing for **more** in his chest._

_White-hot pain arcing through his head, shooting through his limbs; screaming as he was erased._

_Laying in a snow-filled trench, the wooden stock of his rifle tucked firmly into his shoulder.  Slowing his breath, his heartbeat; falling into razor-sharp instinct and terrifying mental silence as the Target’s car navigated the curve._

The former Asset could not say what the images were or what they came from.  The mounting pressure of so many images crowding in his skull caused terrible, debilitating headaches.  He had begun writing the images down in a desperate attempt to purge them, make sense of them.  He could not trust that any of them were real or true, but perhaps he could make himself less dangerous if all the images were gone.

With time and the ability to conduct research, he had learned enough about his former life to make sense of some of the images.  Sergeant James B. Barnes.  American; Brooklyn.  Son and brother and best friend.  Bookworm, intrigued with science, liked to work with his hands.  Non-Commissioned Officer; sniper; second in command of one of the most highly regarded commando units in the second world war.

The images, he eventually realized, were _memories_.  He had not sprung full-formed from the _cold_ or the _pain_ or the Hydra lab.  He had had a _life_.  He had had a mother, a family, hobbies, dreams.  He was not always a _thing_ , an _Asset_ ; he had been a _man_.

Protecting those memories had become Barnes’ most sacred and primary objective.  He could not say whether he was truly free of Hydra’s control, and until he knew for certain he could not go home.  But he could protect these precious pieces of himself, could try to fit them together again into a whole that resembled who he used to be.  And he could learn to be a man again.

Perhaps he should have figured that Steve would never consent to leaving him in the cold.

The Shadow glances to his right, terrified that perhaps he will lose grip of his Light, will be left alone in this hurricane of notebook pages and electricity.

“I’m here, Buck,” his Light says reassuringly, that beautiful sunshine smile lighting up his whole face.  “We’ll get through this together.”

The Shadow nods, swallowing nervously.  He hopes his Light knows where he’s going; certainly the Shadow can see no path through the whirlwind of flickering images.

“We’re gonna make this stop,” his Light says, his Patriotic Jaw of Determination jutting out like a ship’s prow as the Eyebrow of Righteousness furrowed righteously.  “It’s like building a bridge.  You find one good stone, and you build off of that.”  
The Shadow looks at the Light askance, overwhelmed.  “How?” he asks helplessly.  “How do we find a good memory in the middle of all this?  I don’t even know if any of these are real!”

His Light is right there.  Close enough to fill the Shadow’s entire visual field; close enough to disappear into.  His Light lays tender hands on his cheeks, refuses to let him focus on anything else.

“Close your eyes,” his Light commands.  “Ignore everything else.  Even me.  Somewhere inside you, there is one thing you know is true.  One fact you can’t question.  What is that?”

He closes his eyes.  He wonders idly if it is a bad thing, that he finds such solace in the black nothing as opposed to the chaotic, disjointed hurricane of his mind.

For a timeless time, he drifts in the darkness.  There is no anchor, here; no direction or hint as to what this great central truth may be.

But at the depths of the darkness…  Well.  He really is not all that surprised at what he finds.

“You,” he whispers.  “The one thing I can’t question is you.  It’s always been you.”

Hesitantly, he opens his eyes to see his Light staring at him solemnly.

“You never told me,” his Light says quietly.  
“How could I?” the Shadow asks helplessly.  “It wasn’t clean, what I felt for you.  It was dirty, twisted, wrong.  You remember.”

The notebook pages flutter at the Shadow’s words, and images begin to draw themselves among the white arcs of electricity.  A black-robed priest screaming fire and brimstone from the pulpit.  Hard-faced men beating a waifish boy bloody for daring to enter the wrong part of town.  Snide rumors about the Navy docks, the dance halls.  Half-muffled moans in barracks showers; the constant threat of a blue discharge.  His Captain, beautiful and determined; and a gnawing, white-hot ache in his gut as old as time itself.

“So that’s your core?” his Light asks, and his voice is amused.  “You want me?”

The Shadow shakes his head, cradling his Light’s dear face in his hands.

“My core is, I love you,” he declares.  “Every way one person can love another.”

His Light smiles; that beautiful sweet smile that softens him from a scowling menace into a damn angel.

“That’s enough to build on,” he nods.  “Look.”

They stand side by side and watch as softly glowing golden threads spread out from where they stand.  The threads meander and wind through the chaotic swirl of notebook memories.  Some are caught by threads and tied down fast; touchstones to build on.  Some are batted away; implanted lies or mistaken impressions, things he doesn’t need to keep.  Those memories are gobbled up by the greedy, ravenous electricity; burned away until nothing remains.

When all is done, the Shadow can see the outline of who he was before he was made a monster.  He wonders if it is possible to become like this again; can he remake himself into a man?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, I'm at the mercy of Google translate, so native Xhosa speakers will have to forgive me.
> 
> Qalisa ngeli xesha unako, intaka encinane - Run while you can, little bird.


	3. Secret Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some said only a trueborn prince could awaken the beauty from her enchanted slumber. But in the end, it was not external station but inner nobility that saved the day…

 

T’Chaka instilled many lessons in both his children.  Lessons in how to lead, how to shoulder difficult decisions, how to listen, how to balance the needs of public and private selves.

T’Challa was not always the most receptive student.  He was a hotheaded, impatient youth, not always willing to listen to cooler heads.  Now that he wears the mantle of chieftain and king, T’Challa finds himself leaning on the lessons of his childhood with increasing frequency and reverence.

_The most valuable advisers are those who open your eyes to ideas and possibilities you have not considered_ , T’Chaka once said.   _If their words inspire anger or discomfort, if they stop you short with their argument, they must be kept close, to remind you that yours is not the only voice that matters, and yours is not the only way._

His Ororo had been such a one.  They had met as adolescents, when T’Chaka took his son on a diplomatic tour.  T’Challa and Ororo had spent the entire week disagreeing and debating everything from trade agreements to Western hegemony to whether dates or pomegranates were the superior fruit.  T’Challa had fallen in love with Ororo’s mind long before he’d been able to admit he was enamored of the rest of her.  Even now, years after their hasty marriage and bittersweet divorce, T’Challa seeks Ororo’s advice before all others, calling her at all hours just to argue with her.

T’Challa pauses outside the lounge the fugitives have informally claimed as their own.  They are all gathered, as they often are, and seem to be spiritedly arguing, as they always are.  Steven has joined them, for once.  He looks like he might suffocate beneath the weight of his burdens, but is ignoring the weight at the moment to shake his head in amusement as the others trade barbed insults.  Wanda sits quietly beside him.  She still suffers greatly from the loss of her twin, and her treatment while imprisoned in the Raft, Steven has told him.  But she looks at peace, now; comfortable enough in a quiet room among people she trusts.  Clinton is perched atop the back of a couch, clear sightlines in all directions as he chucks kernels of popcorn at Scott’s head.  Scott bats at him ineffectually as he objects to Samuel’s impassioned argument.  And Samuel…

Oh, Samuel.  T’Challa is helpless as his gaze fixates on the man’s animated face, his devastating gap-toothed smile.  There is no trace of the troubled, nightmare-shaken warrior T’Challa found in the kitchen at two in the morning when he went for a late-night snack of the Reese’s Puffs he often craved after speaking with Ororo.  T’Challa can only hope that a quiet day among friends has brought Samuel peace, rather than Samuel taking a page from Steven’s book and trying to ignore his grief until he is numbed to it.

“T’Challa!” Samuel calls, shaking him out of his reverie.  “Stop lurking like a creeper, man.  Get in here and back me up.”

He raises an eyebrow, exchanges greetings with the others as he walks in.

“And what argument are you losing so badly that you need me to come save you?” he asks, depositing his armful of folders on the coffee table before lowering himself into the armchair beside Samuel’s with an appreciative sigh.

Samuel’s jaw drops as the others explode in laughter.  For a second T’Challa’s brows raise, and he worries that he has misread, that--

“Oh, so it’s like that?” Samuel asks, a devilish gleam lighting in the depths of his eyes.  
“Of course it’s like that, if you’re arguing over movies,” he nods.  “Your taste is deplorable.”

Clinton crows in triumph as Samuel’s eyes narrow in mock indignation.

“I resent that,” he informs T’Challa.  “I have superb taste.”  
“ _Ice Spiders_ ,” T’Challa shoots back.  
“Kitty, _Ice Spiders_ is a goddamned delight, and if you can’t appreciate it then this friendship is over,” he huffs.  
“What is _Ice Spiders_?” Wanda asks, intrigued, and Steven and T’Challa groan.  
“Please, no,” Steven begs.  “Please don’t make me do this again.”  
“Oh no,” Samuel says with a mile-wide grin, rushing to queue up the movie.  “We are doing this.  Someone get the booze.”  
“My kinda movie,” Clinton grins, getting up to fetch a bottle and glasses.

The drinking game to _Ice Spiders_ has four simple rules, and they are effective; they are not quite halfway through the movie, but everyone except the Captain is toeing the line between pleasantly fuzzy and world-spinning drunk.  It has been a long time since T’Challa allowed himself to let loose like this, and he slouches in his seat, enjoying the way the world has gone slow and lazy and fuzzy at the edges.

“I hope you weren’t expecting to actually get that done,” Samuel comments, nudging the abandoned folders with one sock-covered toe.  
“Mm-?  Oh!” T’Challa exclaims softly, sitting up and blinking away his lethargy.  “I brought these for you, _intaka_.  I want to show you something.”

He reaches out and swipes up the folders, but Samuel is too far away to see them properly.  T’Challa looks at the distance between them, looks down at his armchair, and shrugs.  Brow furrowed in concentration, he attempts to scoot his chair closer, but the chair is heavy and his muscles feel as substantial as saltwater taffy.  Samuel throws his head back and laughs, and T’Challa is stunned by the golden tone of his joy, the long line of his neck.

“That was great,” Samuel says, chuckling.  “The mighty Black Panther, outwitted by a chair.  Oh man.”

T’Challa means to glare, but it ends up feeling like a pout.  Samuel chuckles again, but stands, crossing the step and a half between their seats before flopping down.  The armchair really is not meant for two, but Samuel keeps squirming, and they may be mostly in each other’s laps but at least it is comfortable.

“So, what are you showing me?” Samuel asks, casually propping himself against T’Challa’s shoulder and oh, does that not make it impossible to concentrate.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, T’Challa opens the top folder and offers it for the younger man’s perusal.

“I was thinking on what you told me, about the diaspora,” he says thickly, alcohol making his tongue heavy and unwilling to wrap around English.  “We have never forgotten you.  Our stolen, our lost.  There have been discussions, attempts, through the centuries, to organize and offer the lost a way back home.  But then…  Wars, and unrest, and European colonialism.  Every time, our efforts have been thwarted.  But now… perhaps we can try again.”

Samuel’s eyes are wide as he flips through the proposal.  The idea is still in its infancy, T’Challa knows.  Finding the funding and research for a project like this will be a challenge; meeting the demand will be difficult, and justifying the project - even from a scholarly, history of human migration and lost history of pre-colonial African perspective - will take effort.  But sweet Bast, the way Samuel’s eyes shine as a disbelieving smile grows on his face…

He does not know who moves first.  But suddenly lips are on lips, and he is drowning he is burning he is dissolving and _oh_ \--

Voices buzz in his ears like tsetse flies, slowly penetrating through the haze of alcohol and Samuel until he remembers that they are not alone, the others are watching, that they are not sober.  T’Challa and Samuel spring apart, and T’Challa tries to convince himself that he does not feel cold as Samuel jumps up and hurries out with a mumbled excuse about needing the restroom.  He fights down a wave of nausea as he stands, trying to convince himself it is a result of the alcohol only.  He gathers his files and makes his excuses as he leaves, telling himself he is not fleeing.

As he collapses in his bed, he tells himself he does not still taste Samuel on his tongue, that his scent has not penetrated T’Challa’s every pore.  He tells himself that nothing has changed.

As he falls into the blackness of sleep, he hears Ororo laughing at his pathetic attempts at self-delusion.

 

* * *

As the sun rises over the lush jungle, a lone sentinel returns to his lonely vigil after a sleepless night.  He should be tired, he knows; while he can survive on less rest than his non-enhanced brethren, five nights without sleep is pushing it even for him.

His weariness takes a back seat to his elation.  The healers have been keeping a close eye on his brother since Bucky chose to re-enter his enchanted sleep.  For weeks, they have analyzed Department X’s and Hydra’s files on the warrior named Winter Soldier, trying to understand the innumerable experiments conducted on him.  Before sending Bucky to sleep, the healers had run a full array of scans and tests, and drew enough blood for whatever further study they’d need.  Even after sealing Bucky in his glass chrysalis, the healers and their machines monitored him constantly, and Steve monitored them.

And now, finally, the weeks of ceaseless labor and patient vigil appear to be reaping results.

Combining elements of a chemical compound being developed to treat Alzheimer’s, a refined strain of Extremis, and a compound extracted from Bucky’s own version of the Erskine serum, Doctor Mgebe has developed a potion that she believes will help Bucky’s brain to repair itself from the horrific damage caused by repeated electroshock.  It will do nothing to aid his emotional trauma, of course; Bucky will still need intensive therapy and rehabilitation.  But his brain will at least be stable.

With Steve’s enthusiastic approval, Doctor Mgebe and her team have developed a plan for Bucky’s treatment.  They will begin by partially reanimating him, bringing him only far enough out of cryostasis to allow the drug to do its work.  Bucky will remain unconscious and under round-the-clock surveillance.  If the scans show enough improvement, Bucky will be brought back to waking life to begin the process of deactivating any remaining trigger words, and to wean him off the cocktail of methamphetamines and neural inhibitors Hydra used to control him.

It is not the end of the road, Steve knows; Bucky’s recovery will still be a very long journey.  But there is now light at the end of the tunnel.  At this point, Steve will cling to any shred of hope.

Steve watches from an observation room as the doctors begin the process of reversing cryostasis.  It is a delicate process, he knows; if they move too quickly, Bucky’s body will go into shock.  Too slowly, and he will wake while still frozen, and die of hypothermia, suffocation, or lack of blood flow.

Steve watches, arms folded tightly, as Doctor Mgebe halts the reanimation process where she wants it.  He watches as her team run scans and tests, ensuring that all is well.  He watches as she inserts an IV into Bucky’s flesh arm, and he watches as she adds a carefully calculated dose of the potion to the saline drip.

Dr. Mgebe opens the door, silently inviting Steve into the medical ward.  Steve crosses to Bucky in a daze, overwhelmed by the sight of his dearest friend no longer distorted by glass.  The beeping of the heart monitor is the most beautiful lullaby Steve has ever heard; he is nearly undone by the opportunity to hold Bucky’s hand for the first time in seventy three years.

“If all goes well, we should be able to awaken Sergeant Barnes in one week,” Doctor Mgebe says, smiling.

To bring a dead man back to life, to restore sanity to an unstable mind; these are noble goals, and Steve knows the doctor will benefit greatly in grant money and accolades.  But the chance to bring back _Bucky_ …  It is a magical boon Steve had hardly dared hope for.

One week.  Seven days, and he might have Bucky back.

Steve has to blink against the burn of sudden tears.  It seems too good to be true.  After all this time, it seems impossible that anything could end happily.  He wonders what that says about him, that he is so mistrustful of good news.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reaches out and takes Bucky’s hand in his.  There is great familiarity in this; sitting hand in hand, guarding over each other.  When they were children, it was always Bucky holding vigil through the dark nights of Steve’s innumerable illnesses.  In the war, Steve had finally had a chance to repay him, and stood watch so Bucky could get a few hours of shuteye - the only way Bucky would ever consent to relaxing his guard; Steve wonders if he had feared the effects of Zola’s experiments, even then.  He had been there when Bucky woke from nightmares, silent but blank-eyed with terror.

Steve knows he could spend the rest of his life guarding Bucky’s slumber, and it still would not come close to repaying all that Bucky has done for him.

“Didja hear, Buck?” Steve asks, studying the curve of his fingers around Bucky’s.  “You’ll be awake soon.  For good, this time.  No more conditioning, no more missions.  Just… life.”

Steve allows himself to think of it for just a moment, this future spread out before them.  Steve is no longer Captain America; he no longer answers to his country, or to SHIELD.  Bucky will be free of Hydra; no longer the Winter Soldier.  They will not have to fight anymore.

What would they do?  What _could_ they do?  Two relics, two knights from a war long since ended…  Two international fugitives, between them wanted by almost every kingdom on the planet…  What did one do with a tool that had outlived its usefulness?

Steve has never really had a clear vision of the future; he had grown up knowing he would be dead by thirty.  He had enjoyed art, once; perhaps he could return to the profession he might have pursued, had the war never come.  Bucky had loved science, and working with his hands; his favorite bout of employment had been the eight months he spent at Mr. O’Sheehan’s mechanic shop.  They could do that, maybe; disappear into an isolated small town and hide beneath new identities.  They could live off the grid; they could have a quiet little life.

Steve sighs, the dream dissipating as quickly as it comes.  Could they truly disappear?  He is sure Tony could find them with the help of his all-seeing incorporeal servants, no matter where on this earth they hide.  Even if they can hide from Tony, they cannot hide from Natasha.  

“I should stop kidding myself,” he confesses quietly.  “Ain’t that what you always told me, to come back down to earth?  This is what you were tryin’ ta tell me.  That there is no comin’ back.  Captain America, the Winter Soldier…  The things we’ve done…  We don’t come back from that.”

And…  Does Steve even want a quiet life?  Does Bucky?  Who are they, without the chaos of war?

“Steven,” comes T’Challa’s mellow, authoritative voice from the doorway.  “We are headed into Jabari.  Will you join us?”

Steve cannot help it; he resents the intrusion.  Which is illogical and unfair, he knows; T’Challa cannot intrude in his own palace.  Moreover, Steve has been given sanctuary, and Bucky his peaceful slumber, by T’Challa’s grace; he is utterly beholden to this king he has pledged service to.  He cannot renege on his vows at the first test.

But he wants to; oh how he wishes he could.  If given the choice, Steve would eat, sleep and breathe at his post.  He would rather never leave Bucky’s side again, or at least not until his brother has awoken from his enchanted sleep.  He does not care how impractical the idea is; he knows he has more than enough stubbornness to carry it out.

But he made a promise to Sam not to isolate himself in this realm of the dead.  He made a promise to T’Challa to tend to the living.  He made a promise to Bucky not to put his life on hold, waiting for his brother to join him.  So, reluctantly, he tears himself away from his lonely vigil, and joins his sovereign and his former shield brothers.

Steve is surprised to see T’Challa garbed simply, in a traditional white kanzu.  The others are likewise dressed for comfort and maneuverability, which makes Steve feel less awkward about his informal tshirt and running shorts.

The walk to the village is quiet and uncomfortable.  There is visible tension between Sam and T’Challa, who very carefully do not look at each other.  Wanda too seems withdrawn, and there are dark purple shadows beneath Clint’s eyes.  Only Scott seems to be himself.

He has neglected them, Steve knows.  He led them into war, he got them all exiled from their home, and then he abandoned them for Bucky.  He wishes he felt guiltier about how easy it was in the end, to drop them and all his responsibilities along with the shield.  If he is honest with himself, there are days when Steve wants it all back; when he feels lost and adrift, and does not recognize the face in the mirror.  But there is no going back.  Steve has lain down his shield and his title and his self; he has proven loud and clear that he will sacrifice anything and anyone if it means he can have Bucky.  What else is there to say?  What else can he do, but distance himself from the life and the people he can no longer lead?

“This is the _Umthendeleko Wezandla_ , the Festival of Hands,” T’Challa explains as he leads them into the village square.  “A time for neighbors to help neighbors, for building and repairing.  Go wherever your feet take you, and give aid wherever it is needed.”

With these directions, he takes off, joining a group of men and women who are repairing a crumbling sheep shelter.  The former warriors drift in separate directions, seeking out tasks to complete.

Steve finds himself grateful for the physical labor.  It feels good to heft buckets of water, break apart stones, shore up walls and fail to herd sheep.  It is a relief to bury his racing thoughts, to drown his worry and think of nothing but where to locate a hammer or judging how much further to build up a wall until it is ten feet tall.

The hours pass in a blur of physical activity.  When the sun sets, the villagers cease their labors, and convene in the square for music, dancing, and food.  Steve hangs back, watching the others.  Clint is entertaining a gaggle of children with juggling and tumbling.  A shyly smiling Wanda is surrounded by a group of girls her own age, who teach her the steps to some dance they found on youtube.  Scott is kicking around a soccer ball with Sam and a few of the Dora Milaje.  They all seem more relaxed and happier than this morning, and Steve is glad for them.

“Will you not join them, Steven?”

Steve does not jump, and he does not turn to face T’Challa as the King gracefully lowers himself to sit beside him.

“They don’t need me anymore,” Steve replies, eyes scanning the crowd.  
“Perhaps not,” T’Challa says softly.  “But they’d like you there.”

There is silence between them for several minutes before T’Challa speaks again.

“I do not understand why you feel worthless unless you are in uniform,” he states.  “You speak in terms of need and duty, as if that is all you are.  Are you not also a man?”

He pauses, but Steve has no answer for him.  Shaking his head, T’Challa continues.

“Who taught you that you only have value as Captain America?” he asks.  “Why are you only worthy if you perform grand heroics?  Look at the work you have done today,” he presses.  “It will not add to Captain America’s legacy, and perhaps it will not change the world.  But you have repaired Akhona’s fence, and this will protect her livelihood, and keep her from being dependent on her son and daughter-in-law.  You removed stones from Ntando’s field, and this will increase his crop yields, so he can afford to send his daughter to school along with his sons.  All the work you have done has affected these people’s lives, and improved their worlds.  Is this less worthy than when you prevented an alien invasion?”  
“Of course not,” Steve says, startled.  “It’s just-”  
“Just what?” T’Challa challenges him, not unkindly.  “Is it that you perform these acts for your own glory?”  
“No,” Steve says, but he is less certain.  
“Then why is this work unworthy?  Why are you unneeded if you are not performing what you consider worthy acts?”

Steve has no answer, and T’Challa does not seem to expect one.  Clapping Steve on the shoulder, he strides forward to join the dancing, leaving Steve to his whirling thoughts.  With no defenses left, Steve sighs, shoulders bowing under the weight of this new knowledge, and the realization of what he must do now.

When he wakes up the next morning, Steve rushes to the healers’ ward as usual, but he does not allow himself to settle into his usual armchair.  He allows himself only a moment at Bucky’s side.  It will be the last, he knows; probably for a while.  This will be a battle Bucky cannot fight for him; it is a war Steve should have been fighting all along.  He is long overdue, and this must be won and settled so that he can help his brother.

Drawing a deep, fortifying breath, Steve takes Bucky’s cold hand in his, willing his warmth and strength into his brother.  Slowly, he raises Bucky’s hand to his lips, pressing a quiet, reverent kiss to Bucky’s knuckles; a silent confession that is all he can offer right now.  Then he forces himself to turn on his heel and walk out the door, squaring his shoulders as he marches into battle.

He knocks on the office door, waits for it to open before launching his opening salvo.

“Doctor Mgebe, I need help.”

 

* * *

Warmth.  Beautiful, golden light such as he has not felt in decades; a glorious heat he has forgotten.  He sighs in contentment, curling into his Light as they sit on the edge of a grand canyon and watch the stars wheel overhead.

“This is what I kept,” he confesses, leaning into his Light’s warmth.  “I couldn’t remember my name, or yours, or why you were important.  But this…  Every time they put me down, every time they wiped me…  This is what I was looking for.”  
“Stars?” his Light asks, amused.  
He shakes his head.  “Warmth,” he replies on a dreamy sigh.  “You.  You kept me warm, even when they froze me.”

His Light, his Alexander smiles, tucking his face under the Shadow’s chin.  The Shadow closes his eyes, breathing his Light in, drawing him into his core.

“I used to dream about this.  Us,” he confesses quietly.  “In our first life, before the war.”

The Shadow and the Light tilt their heads back, watching the stars dance and rearrange themselves in new patterns.  They watch the stars form images; memories.  They watch themselves - Bucky teaching Steve to dance, to throw a punch, to hawk papers, to plan an attack.

“Always wanted to be next to you,” he continues, the words easier to say when they are not looking at each other.  “You’re my light, Steve.  You’re my stars.  You’ve always kept me warm.”

Silence.

The Shadow turns to look, but the Light has gone.

The Shadow scrambles up, frantic and afraid; have _they_ returned?  Are _they_ taking the Light away again?  Is he being condemned to darkness, to shadow?

“STEVE!” he screams in agony as the stars wink out and he is once again plunged into darkness.

He looks around wildly, seeking light, landmarks, anything.  He shivers as a bitter winter wind blows, as cold congeals somewhere behind him.

The Shadow shudders, closing his eyes in resignation.  He should have known better, he berates himself; did he really think he could outrun the monster that lives in the depths of his mind?

Clenching his fists, he steels himself, then turns to face the empty, steely glare of his mortal enemy.

The Winter Soldier glares back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally made up the Festival of Hands, but I kind of based it on the idea of an Amish barn raising – it’s a day where the entire community comes together and helps each other with any needed home repairs and improvements, in the spirit of maintaining the bonds of community and family.


	4. Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legend says a malicious dragon lies coiled around the sleeping castle. But are dragons vicious beasts to be vanquished, or powerful guardians to be revered?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential Trigger Warning for Bucky's POV; we've got some suicidal ideation, victim self-blaming, and a near-death experience going down herein. The first two are only briefly touched upon, and all of it is couched in poetic fairy tale language, but please be mindful of your triggers and/or squick.

It makes sense, Sam thinks, that a king like T’Challa should have such a queen.

Despite what Steve says, Sam is not _pining_.  He is not lovelorn, and he does not stare after the object of his affections with starstruck longing.  He is merely _observing_.

Sam does not know the full history; T’Challa has not confided in him, and Sam has not pried.  But he has the gist of it.  He knows that T’Challa fell head over heels in love with Ororo Munroe, knows that he married the mutant against the wishes of the tribal elders, knows that distance eventually led to divorce.

Yet there is the former Queen of Wakanda, her arm threaded through her ex-husband’s as though she had never left, as if she belonged.  Which she does; of course she does.  Ororo is descended from Kenyan priestesses; she retains Wakandan citizenship.  She was T’Challa’s wife, and according to Shuri is still one of T’Challa’s most trusted friends and advisors.  It is nothing to Sam if she has come to visit.

Once upon a time, Sam was actually able to lie to himself.  He misses that ability.

Lying, he muses, would be more comfortable than the hot burn of jealousy lodged in his chest.  He has no right to feel this way, he knows; no matter what he might wish, he has no claim on T’Challa beyond friendship, and even that bond is shaky in the wake of his drunken mistake.  He would be a fool to confuse wishes with reality.

Part of Sam is startled by the fierce, relentless burn of jealous anger.  He has always fallen in love easily; his mama used to worry that her boy was giving away too much of himself.  But he has only gotten possessive a very few times; the loves that really meant something. 

To be honest, Sam is not sure he is ready to admit just how deep his feelings for the Wakandan go.  He is not sure when or how this even happened.  And why could he not have remained ignorant of this helpless infatuation?  He would have happily lied to himself, called his feelings camaraderie or admiration and avoided this exact situation.  To be brutally honest, Sam is not sure he is ready to be in love again.  Not after Riley.  He is not certain he can bear loving a hero again; the constant tightrope of adoring their dedication to ideals and simultaneously fearing the day they were inevitably sacrificed to those ideals.

Sam’s heart, as usual, had left his brain’s very logical fears in the dust.  His heart was already fully invested, and dearly wanting to throw Ororo off a cliff somewhere.

“Sam?” Steve asks in his very best _now you listen here, son_ voice.  
“Yeah,” he answers absently, trying to refocus.  
“You’re my best friend, and I love you,” Steve says, clearly gearing up to say something unpleasant.  “But you’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

There it was.

“I’ll agree with that,” Natasha nods sagely, a smile hiding in her eyes.  
“Thanks,” Sam huffs, sinking back into the sofa.  “Really feeling the love right now.”  
“If you wanna feel the love, I’m sure T’Challa would be happy to comply,” Natasha smirks.  
“Oh my God,” Sam rolls his eyes.  “Can we drop this, please?”  
“Just…  I don’t want you makin’ my mistakes,” Steve says, annoyingly earnest.  
“Steve,” Sam cuts him off, very much not wanting to face this discussion right now.  “I know you’re just trying to help.  But I am a grown-ass man and I do not need the pep talk right now, alright?”

Steve and Natasha exchange a Look, and if Sam did not know better, he would assume they were speaking telepathically and making plans to gang up on him.  But praise Jesus, they agree to drop the topic, and leave Sam to sulk in peace.

He is not quite ready to face the truth of his feelings.  But he will hold a sulk like a champion.

He should not have kissed T’Challa.  He knows this.  He wishes he could blame it solely on the alcohol; downplay it as a drunken impulse.  But Sam knows himself better than that; it was not the rum, it was just T’Challa.  His lazy smile, his relaxed sprawl, his unexpected generosity and passion for a subject Sam had never expected them to have in common.  Sitting half in T’Challa’s lap, close enough to drown in his warmth and his laughter, Sam had never wanted anything more.

But just because he _wants_ does not mean he trusts himself to _have_.  He does not know if he can do this again, and so is it not better to keep his distance and his own counsel?  What does he have to lose, except his own heart?

* * *

Steve has never been comfortable asking for help or acknowledging his limits.  It stems, he thinks, from having been sick so often in his youth.  Sickness equates to weakness equates to helplessness; he has never wanted to be a burden on anyone.

It used to drive Bucky crazy, he remembers fondly.   _You ain’t an island, Stevie_ , Bucky used to snap when he got fed up with Steve’s stubbornness.   _There’s no shame in needin’ help now and then.  Needin’ folks is what makes us human._

It had been a miracle to come out of Howard’s infernal machine with Dr. Erskine’s serum flowing through his veins.  Finally, a chance to stand on his own two feet; a chance not to need help anymore.  Now he could be the one to help; now others could lean on him; now he could repay the massive debt he owed others for his continued life and health.

He had learned quickly, in the field.  Out in the heat of battle, no one was holding a mental tally of favors and debts owed and earned.  You cared for the man beside you, and he cared for you; that was the only way to survive.  Refusing help got you killed quickly.

Steve has always wondered, in the darkest depths of his psyche, whether his punishment for accepting the miraculous serum had been to be stripped of his main support and help.  He had never wanted Bucky to be the price he paid for independence.

It was funny, how the lessons of war had fallen away and been forgotten when he arose from the grave and rejoined the modern age.

He hated the fuss SHIELD had made over him.  He understood they were ecstatic to have an asset such as him in their arsenal, and going on missions was a decent way to distract himself from his trauma.  But he did not want to be beholden to anyone else ever again, or dependent on them for a sense of belonging in this strange new world.

If there was one truth Steve knew, it was that everyone left you in the end.  Nothing lasted forever, and so it was dangerous to depend on anyone.

In retrospect, Steve may have leaned on the semi-deified image of courageous, noble, untouchable Captain America just a little too much.  The mask of the Captain had been an excellent shield for a very long time, but now…

“Who is Steve Rogers, without Captain America?” Doctor Ndzaba asks him.  “Without Bucky Barnes?”  
Steve shakes his head.  “I don’t know,” he admits, helpless.

He does not have long to find out.  Bucky remains in a medically-induced coma, but he is responding well to Doctor Mgebe’s treatments; he could awaken within days.  And when he wakes, Steve must be whole and stable enough to be the strong one, to hold Bucky together while he tries to rebuild himself.

After all, he owes Bucky more than a few times over.

Steve will not be allowed to see Bucky, at first.  At T’Challa’s insistence, first Bucky will be taken through an intensive deprogramming process designed by Natasha.  Only when the psychologists - and, more importantly, Natasha herself - deem him stable will Bucky even be given the option of seeing Steve.  It is a condition Natasha insisted upon before she agreed to help.

“I know you, Steve,” she had said.  “If it was up to you, you’d hold Barnes’ hand through this whole thing.  But if you ever want a chance of seeing the man you remember, you have to let him find his way back alone.  He can’t be dependent on you for any bit of his progress, or things will never be equal between you.”

Steve had bitten back the instinctive denial, the argument that he knows Bucky better than anyone in this world and that they will endure this trial together.  He forces himself to remember the file, and Natasha’s initial debrief, and his own memories of last May.  The Bucky he knew is dead; hell, the Steve that Bucky knew is gone as well.  They are different men now; they must rediscover each other.

_Who is Steve Rogers without Bucky Barnes?_

Steve is afraid that the answer is, _nobody_.

That answer used to make him grin.  When faced with an overwhelming egomaniac like Johann Schmidt – or, to be frank, Howard Stark – it was a comfort to be nobody special, just an ordinary kid from Brooklyn.  But now, with no one and nothing but himself to hold onto…  It is rather terrifying to be nobody.

_Who is Steve Rogers?_

He has all the time in the world to find out, now.  He cannot return to America while there is a bounty on his head.  He does not even know if he wants to return to America.  There is nothing waiting for him, after all; he gave up his friends, his job, and everything else in order to have Bucky.  And Bucky is here in Wakanda.  He is no longer Captain America, and while he does not know how to live without a war it is enough, for now, to help build houses, to herd livestock out of the road, to spar with his friends.

If there is a place in this world for him and Bucky, Steve will find it.

_Who is Steve Rogers?_

It is a daunting question, and not knowing the answer makes him uneasy.

But there is a challenge in the question, and Steve has never been able to back down from a challenge.

* * *

The winter wind howls in fury, whipping the snow into a frenzy beneath a blood-red sky.  The blizzard is ferocious; a living, snarling beast that shrieks with rage and pain and memories.

The ferocity of the storm cannot compete with the relentless battle happening below.

The two figures move in perfect tandem; tornadoes of deadly limbs and attacks.  They have been fighting for what feels like an eternity, neither able to maintain an advantage over the other.

It is fitting, the Shadow thinks, that he be locked in eternal conflict with himself.

The snow swirls and drifts, creating patterns and pictures - a large soldier throwing a shield like a frisbee; the swirling skirts of a dancing, laughing girl; fireworks on the fourth of July; a band of brothers standing shoulder-to-shoulder for propaganda photographs.  The falling snow stings his face, his frozen, bloody hands; and as the flakes melt into his skin, memories blossom in his veins.

The Soldier continues to fight as singlemindedly as he had been trained; but he is a ghost, a shadow, and he is fading.  He is the winter storm, and the Shadow is absorbing the storm into his skin.

His teeth chatter, his muscles freeze as his nerves numb and he is submerged in the storm.  The cold is in every part of him; there is no _him_ , there is only the cold and the howling, screaming wind…

_What have I done.  What have I **done**?!_

The red sky rains down blood, and the Shadow’s hands are soaked, saturated, stained.  He will never be clean.  He sees their faces in the sky, hears their dying moments in the wind.  He screams with the pain and the fury of his victims, shoulders bowing with the burden of knowledge.

He was never innocent, but he was clean once.  He fought in a war, and he killed for his country, but he was still a man, still whole.

He has become a monster.  The atrocities he committed for his masters, the empty, stunted _thing_ he allowed himself to become…  He should have fought harder.  Should have tried to escape, should have sought death before dishonor, should have should have should have…  But he did none of those things.  Instead…  The Shadow shudders as the blizzard howls inside him and he remembers exactly what he had done.  Hydra’s rabid dog.

Someone should put him down.

Perhaps he should put himself down.

The Shadow watches, beleaguered and weary, as two paths appear before him.  He blinks, glances between them; how does he choose which way to go?

“You have a choice now.”

He whips around at the low, accented voice, blinking in confusion at the young, dark-haired woman, whose slight frame is surrounded by a halo of soft, undulating red.

“Who are you?” he asks, searching through the blizzard and the blood to remember if he has seen her before.  
“My name is Wanda,” she replies.  “I am a friend of Steve’s.  We met, briefly, before… well.  Before this,” she says, waving a beringed hand at the surroundings.

James tilts his head, sifting through the snowbanks for the memory.  It comes slowly; a Sokovian teenage sorceress, who looks so harmless but who can rearrange his mind so profoundly that he will never recover…

“How did you find me?” he asks, settling his body in a wide-legged defensive stance.  
“Peace,” the Scarlet Witch says, raising her hands in surrender.  “I will not hurt you.  I’ve come to help you.”  
“Help me?  How?” he asks warily.

Wanda catches her lower lip between her teeth, her fingers twitching anxiously before she laces them together at her waist.

“What would you like me to call you?” she asks.

The simple question catches him off-guard.  He is called…  He is the Asset.  The Shadow.  The Soldier.

He shivers as the wind wraps around him – not the harsh winter blizzard, but something softer and warmer, a spring breeze that is refreshing rather than damning.

_My Bucky…  Hephaestion…  your name is James Buchanan Barnes…_

“James,” he whispers.  “My name is James.”

The Asset had no name; monsters are only shadows and whispers, substantial as the wind.  If he accepts this name he has given himself, does that mean he is not a monster?  Or, perhaps, not _just_ a monster?

“James, then,” Wanda nods, before looking at him intently.  “Do you remember where you are?” she asks carefully.

James blinks, looks around aimlessly.  He feels the gentle kiss of a snowflake on his cheek, and nods.

“Cryo,” he replies.  “I’m dreaming.”  
“Yes,” Wanda nods.  “The doctors have been doing their best to treat and repair what they can.  Your brain has been… very damaged.”

They both pause, looking up as a forked bolt of lightning arcs across the sky.

“They brought you out of cryostasis for an experimental drug treatment,” Wanda says quietly, gently.  “Things were going well, but…  Your heart has stopped.  The doctors are trying to revive you.”

James watches the lightning crack overhead again.  His dreamscape goes very quiet and still.

“I’m dying,” he says softly, unable to drum up much fear or indignation at the thought.  
“Yes,” Wanda replies, as softly as he.

He nods.  Turning, he faces the paths again.

“So what are these?” he asks.  
“A choice,” she explains, remaining behind him.  “I was asked to find you, if you were still to be found.”  
“And drag me back?” James asks, smiling humorlessly.  
Wanda looks up at him.  “I do not like removing others’ wills,” she says, her voice no less serious for how quiet it is.  “I wanted you to have a choice.”

James nods again, silenced and daunted by the choice before him.  The Asset was allowed no choices, and now he was being given this monumental decision, before he had even sorted out what was real and true and what was lie.

“Life, on one side,” James surmises.  “And on the other…”  
“Peace,” Wanda answers.  “It will be gentle, like falling asleep.”

James nods, staring at the left-hand path longingly, unconsciously moving toward it.  The path was broad and well-paved, moving steadily toward a gently pulsing white light.  One step, then two; the blood-red sky and shrieking wind melting away into blessed silence.

 _Bucky_ …

James pauses, his brow furrowing.  That name, that voice…  Why does he know that voice?  And why is he listening to it, seductive as the Sorceress’ spells, when his chance for Peace is so close at hand?

_Buck, please…  don’t leave me…  end of the line…_

Shit.  What the hell is he doing?

Death, while peaceful, is a cop-out.  Peace, while tempting, is not what he truly desires.  It does not seem fair, to escape the consequences of all that he has done.  Peace will not bring redemption.

_Bucky…_

And it is horribly selfish of him, but he is not ready to let go of his Light.  If there is even the smallest chance that he can be warmed by Steve’s beautiful warmth, that he can atone for his innumerable sins…  Is that not what his Light would have him do?

Drawing a deep breath, James takes Wanda’s outstretched hand and starts down the narrow, overgrown, rocky path toward Life and Light.


	5. Fairy Godmother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For this is the purpose of a fairy godmother; to aid us in the battles we cannot fight ourselves.

When T’Challa and Ororo were newly married, their second-favorite way to spend time together was to walk arm-in-arm through the lush, overgrown private gardens at the center of the royal compound.  Even now, several years after their divorce, they still fall into the habit of retreating to the gardens when she is home.

T’Challa does not often ask her to return.  She is of course always welcome, whenever she wants to come.  Ororo will often return for her favorite festivals, or when she needs a break from the pressures of superheroism.  But though Ororo assures him frequently that she will always be there for him when he needs her, T’Challa does not often make use of the lifeline.

He had called her three days ago.  He had not told her what was wrong; in fact he had tried to pretend everything was fine.  But Ororo knows her former husband.  She knows what he sounds like when he is hurt, and he sounds brokenhearted.  Perhaps it is strange for him to turn to his ex-wife for comfort, but she is perfectly happy to drop everything to be there for him.

It takes Ororo most of a day to get to the bottom of things.  She breakfasts with a distracted T’Challa, who is trying far too hard to appear normal.  When he excuses himself for his daily meeting with his council, she is somehow pulled into a training session with the Dora Milaje.  Though she has been active with the X-Men, their training style is very different from the disciplined camaraderie of the Dora Milaje.  Of all her life in Wakanda, being a part of the Kingsguard is one of the things she most misses.  After the day’s training ends, Ororo is set upon by her former sister-in-law.  And thank goodness; if not for Shuri’s love of gossip, Ororo might never have put the pieces together.

Over a leisurely late lunch, Ororo learns of Sam Wilson.  Of his easy charm and devastating smile; his steadfast loyalty to Captain Rogers, his protective watchfulness over his fellow exiles.  His boundless love and appreciation of Wakandan culture and history… of the drunken kiss he shared with Wakanda’s king.

As soon as she hears that sad tale, Ororo knows exactly what is wrong.  She knows her _ikatana_ ; he is selective in partners, and falls in love deeply, slowly, and forever.  He is terribly slow to entrust his heart to anyone, for fear of politics and his responsibilities or his own nature ruining things.  But once given, his heart is given forever, and Ororo knows how daunting that responsibility is.  For Sam to kiss T’Challa and then run away, to spend the next several days avoiding him…  It is juvenile nonsense, which they should all be far beyond by now.  More to the point, this nonsense is hurting the most important man in Ororo’s life, the man she still and will always love.  She will not tolerate him being in pain because of another person’s emotional baggage.  Not again.

She gives herself a few days to get the lay of the land.  She knows this man only a little; New York is a small city, and their teams have worked together before.  She knows he is brave and sure in battle, but she knows very little of the man himself.  And so she watches.  She watches Sam Wilson train with his teammates, sit quietly talking with Wanda or Steve, and occasionally wander about on his own, a lost look on his face.  She spends her nights in T’Challa’s bed - talking about everything but the reason she is home, falling asleep curled in each other’s arms like children.

Her chance finally comes early one morning, a week after her arrival.  Sam is taking breakfast on a terrace overlooking the city.  Forging ahead, she takes a seat across from him, reaching for a sweet banana.  She observes Sam for a long moment, waiting for him to glance at her before beginning.

“I have heard much about you, Sam Wilson,” she says, keeping his gaze.  “T’Challa tells me of a man who is thoughtful and wise, who opens his eyes to new ideas and perceptions.  Your behavior around your teammates speaks of a man who is protective and deeply loyal to his friends.  You have provided a sympathetic ear to my own teammates, without judgement or prejudice.  You have fought beside us, and conducted yourself nobly.  All of this tells me you are a good man, an honorable man.”

She pauses.  Though she retains her calm facade, she is not quite able to control her magic, and a distant rumble of thunder sounds in the distance as the sky darkens.

“So for the life of me,” she continues, “I cannot understand how you could be so oblivious, and treat T’Challa so callously.”  
“Really?” Sam shifts in his seat, his jaw clenching as he looks away.

Ororo is patient; she can outlast his anger.  By the time she has prepared a cup of the hot, thick Ethiopian Yergechaffe coffee T’Challa keeps because he knows it is her favorite, Sam gives in and starts talking.

“It’s… complicated,” he hesitates.  “This is… not exactly the best time in my life to start a relationship.  With anyone,” he tacks on, as if his statement is a weak dodge to avoid the fact that T’Challa is male.  
Ororo tilts her head, acknowledging the point.  “And yet.”  
Sam stares down into his papaya juice.  “I’ve never met anyone like him before.  I don’t… know how to handle all that.  I mean, he… he’s a damn king.  How do you even…”  
“It is a heavy burden,” she admits.  “But in some ways, I think, no heavier than the mantle you help Captain Rogers carry.”  
Sam is shaking his head in negation before she has finished.  “That’s different, and you know it.”  
“Is it?” Ororo counters.  “He bears the weight of a title, shoulders the burden of leadership and responsibility.  You care for him, so you help him as much as you can.  You remind him to eat, to rest, so he can continue the fight tomorrow.”  
“Steve and I are friends,” he argues.  “And that’s fine.  But T’Challa… that’s not friendship.  And I don’t know if I can give him anything else.”  
“Ah,” Ororo says softly, wondering if they have come to the heart of the issue.

Sam leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hiding his face in his hands.  Ororo stifles her impulse to offer him comfort; this is not the time.  She allows him the space and silence he needs to wrestle with his emotions, quietly drinking her coffee as she waits for him to continue.

“I loved a fighter, once,” he admits, his voice low and rough with emotion.  “Riley.  My partner.  We were on the same flight squadron, fought side by side.  And I had to watch him die,” he says, the grief and fury barely contained in his choked words.  “I like T’Challa, I do.  So much it scares me.  But I don’t know if I can do this again.  Love another person I have to risk losing.”  
“It is a risk, there is no denying it,” Ororo says.  “And it is a hard truth that one way or another, you _will_ lose him - to battle, or to old age, or simply to your relationship’s end.  But is it worth it, to turn away present happiness in fear of future sorrow?  If you decide you cannot love T’Challa, that is one thing, and you are right to walk away.  But if you see happiness with him…  I think we both understand how important it is to fight for every scrap of happiness we can find.  As for what he is…”  Ororo shrugs.  “You must decide if _who_ he is outweighs that.  But I will tell you this.  T’Challa is not blind to the difficulties of a romance with a fugitive and exile, an outsider who is so very different from what is expected of him as king and chief.  And yet he wants you.  Can that be enough?”

Ororo says nothing more; she does not need to.  Taking her coffee, she leaves Sam to his thoughts.

She has done what she can; now she must prepare either to rejoice in T’Challa’s happiness, or to comfort him through heartbreak.

* * *

Steve sits on his private veranda, a mug of coffee at his elbow as he sketches.

It has been years since he was able to put pen to paper.  For a long time after his resurrection, he drew feverishly, desperately afraid that his memories would fade and be lost to time like everything else.  Slowly, the pain of remembering eclipsed the relief of capturing his memories in a tangible form, and he threw himself into SHIELD to distract himself.  Between SHIELD and the Avengers [and later, chasing Bucky across the globe], there has been no time - or, if he is honest, desire - to draw.

He has nothing but time, now.

He keeps his sketches short, simple; studies in motion.  The graceful flight of a grey kestrel; the nimble climbing of a lemur; the grounded, smooth gait of the Dora Milaje as they patrol the palace grounds.  It is good to watch the world move; an indirect reminder that he is no longer entombed in ice.  That he, too, can move forward.

He pauses in his drawing; sips his coffee, scrubs at his unshaven jaw.  His session with Doctor Ndzaba had been rough this morning.  They have been meeting daily, and despite his natural reticence he has found relief in being able to talk; to lay down his masks and responsibilities and to speak his mind to someone who has no preconceived notions or expectations of him.

Steve is not certain how they arrived at the topic of motion versus stillness.  Steve does not know where the sentiment came from, that he keeps moving and fighting and acting to prove to himself that he is alive.  Doctor Ndzaba asked him what he feared would happen if he were to stop, to sit still, to wait.

Steve has no answer.

His homework for the day is to sit.  He is not to seek out his former teammates, though he may visit if they find him.  He is not to train or seek diversion.  He is to remain in one place.  He may read, though not Bucky’s file or the news; he may draw or paint.

Sitting, Steve finds, leaves a lot of time for thinking.

He thinks about Wakanda.  He is homesick and bored at times, but he likes it here.  He likes the sense of community, the value placed on improvement for the common good, the sense of responsibility all levels of society have to the others.  If he remains exiled from America, he could be happy here.

He thinks about exile.  He knows his situation is delicate; that Steve Rogers is a fugitive but Captain America is a hero and an icon.  He wonders if he can be fired from his title; he wonders if that is what he wants.  He wonders if it is not too late to worry about this, since he has already willingly thrown his sigil and heraldry away.  He is only thirty one; he does not know how many decades he has left on this earth.  What will he do with himself?

He thinks about the Avengers.  Despite the conflict which has driven them apart, he misses his shield-brothers and -sisters.  He misses the training, the unique camaraderie of brothers-in-arms.  He misses standing up and making a difference.

He does not miss the politics, the publicity, the ideological shadow war or compartmentalization.

He wonders if there is a way to have both; if perhaps nomadic vigilante justice is the best way to use his gifts.

He wonders, cautiously, if he has lost himself to his own legend.  He wonders if perhaps T’Challa was correct when he asked whether Steve was heroic to bolster his own ego; if Doctor Erskine would be disappointed in what he has become.  He thinks about perfect soldiers and good men, and wonders when he became more concerned with the former than the latter.  He wonders if perhaps in exile he can redefine himself; if it is enough to perform small acts of kindness and helpfulness.

He thinks about running away, even from the safety of Wakanda.  Thinks about starry nights at the Grand Canyon and the sun rising over the Carpathians; all those fairy tales of travelling that Bucky used to spin for him while he lay sick in bed.  He is not very good at blending into a crowd and never has been, but he would like to see all those places Bucky used to dream about.

He wonders if Bucky would come with him.  

He thinks about his brother, his best friend, his Bucky.  He thinks about the end of the line and where or when that end might be, and he knows what that promise means but does Bucky not deserve to finally rest?  He wonders if perhaps he is cruel; if his continued presence in Bucky’s life can only lead to more fighting and pain.  He wonders if it is crueler to drag him back to life than it would be to let him go.

He thinks about Bucky.  He is out of cryostasis now; he lays in a medically induced coma to allow Doctor Mgebe’s drug and Bucky’s bastardized version of the serum time to do their job.  He thinks about how close Bucky came to dying when he was unfrozen; how a failsafe embedded deep in his shoulder joint nearly poisoned him.  He thinks about how he begged Wanda to use her magic to save Bucky; how, when Wanda emerged from her trance hours later, she told him that Bucky had chosen Steve over peace, and held Steve while he sobbed.

He thinks about Bucky.  He thinks about how he hardly has a memory from his first and second lives that does not involve his best friend.  He thinks about how unmoored he has been since 1944; how he is hardly the same person as the Stevie Bucky knew.  He thinks about friendship, about codependence, about ties so soul-deep they defy words.

He thinks about Bucky.  Thinks about deadly Russian precision and powerful Brooklyn back alley scrapping.  Thinks about the silent sniper’s poise and the laughing dancer’s grace.  He thinks about sacrificing his friends, his shield, his life; thinks about how it felt like nothing to give it all up.  He thinks about Oscar Wilde and Walt Whitman; of Jonathan and David, Alexander and Hephaestion.  He thinks of fireworks and a beat of sweat sliding down the impossibly long, strong line of Bucky’s neck.  He thinks of friendship and damnation; wonders how he could believe it is not a sin to love as he does, but be afraid to reach out and take it.

He thinks about Bucky.  Gives rein, cautiously, to curiosity.  Wonders if the crook of Bucky’s neck still smells the same.  Wonders how his fingers would lace with Steve’s own; about how he still feels unbalanced because there is no one standing on his left.  Wonders if their relationship would actually be any different, or if only the physical would change.  Steve wonders if it would feel wrong, getting on all fours for Bucky, or if it would feel like home.

He thinks about Bucky.  He has always known Bucky loved women, but he always loved Steve, too.  Could it ever be the kind of love Steve imagines?  Is that even something Bucky could want?

Steve wonders if it matters, so long as they are together.  He knows he can be content with friendship; he has been, all his life.  He wonders if it is even fair to crave more; if Bucky will be able to give more.

He wonders if he has not thrown himself into action to run away from the very thoughts that now threaten to overwhelm him.

* * *

James is not really surprised that Wanda vanishes once his feet are firmly planted on the path back to Life.  It is right, he thinks, that he make this journey without help; otherwise, the victory is not truly his.

The path leads him through a confusing maze of seemingly identical alleys.  The air smells of newspaper ink and too many people, and, improbably, oranges.  James breathes the smells of Brooklyn deeply into his lungs, refamiliarizing himself with memories older than blood and pain.

The walls are covered in graffiti, and James drinks in the sketches greedily.  Echoes of a hundred, a thousand back alley brawls.  The ghosts of two young boys giggling as they ran out of the reach of their mothers’ swatting hands, mouths filled with cookies.  The faded strains of music as his former self spun dozens of girls across a dance floor.

It is good, he hopes, to remember memories other than murder and devastation.  It is good to have memories to remind him that he is human.

James pauses, looking up at a large graffiti mural.  Bucky and Steve must have been sixteen or so; sitting on the roof of a building beneath a night sky exploding with fireworks.  He studies their faces, bathed in pinks and blues and purples, and thinks they are beautiful.

He will never be that Bucky again, he knows.  That boy had died even before the mad wizard’s potions turned him into a beast.  James would not even know how to become that young again.  But if he still loved his Light, his Captain, his Alexander and David and Steve the same as he first realized he did on July 4, 1933… then perhaps there enough of that Bucky left to build a life on; maybe there is hope for him yet.

Are not Beasts always redeemed through their love of Beauty?

The fireworks twinkle and sparkle, rising out of the red brick to explode overhead.  Grinning, James breaks into a run, following the trail of fireworks toward a building he never thought he would see again.  He does not waste time going inside; there are enough hand- and footholds to scale the exterior wall, to reach the roof where he first realized he loved Steve.  He pushes himself to go faster, laughing; so eager to reach the Light he has wanted all his life.  The Light is dazzling white and warm and welcoming, and James throws himself into it, into _him_ , and he dissolves in a shower of silver…

“Steve,” James murmurs on a sigh as his eyes slowly open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, I'm beholden to Google Translate, so apologies if they've royally cocked up again.
> 
> Ikatana: Xhosa for “kitten”


	6. True Love's Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a sign; a seal on a solemn vow. It signifies shared breath, shared emotion, shared energy; a promise to prioritize this one above all others. To mark them as more important than quests and glory and magic. And this is why no spell can withstand True Love’s Kiss.

 

Sam leans back in his lounge chair, laughter warm and bright as he watches Clint and Scott play real life Fruit Ninja.  Wanda alternates between scolding and laughing as she makes smoothies from the game’s leftovers.  Steve does not even attempt to maintain order; he is clutching his sides as he helplessly laughs.

It is good to see his friend like this, Sam thinks.  He does not recognize the somber, distant Captain America in this giddy, red-faced idiot beside him, and that is a relief and a kindness.  Steve seems to have shed decades of time and mountains of grief, and Sam is happy to see the change.  He is not so naive as to believe that six weeks of almost daily therapy is enough to unpack decades of grief and trauma; he knows that Steve has a long path ahead of him.  But the first bit of space has been created, and there is no overstating how important that milestone is.

They have talked often over the last six weeks.  Not as Cap and Falcon; not even as healer and patient.  Sam has no wish to blur the lines between personal and professional, and the help Steve needs is beyond Sam’s training to give.  So they talk as friends, as equals.  Without their warrior mantles, they are on equal footing in a way they never were previously, and it is an increased intimacy that Sam enjoys.

He suspects that Steve has never really had a friend before.  The Howlies were friends but also soldiers under his command, and his friendship with Bucky was always caught up in the… everything else they were.  Sam knows that Steve was isolated and bullied as a child.  He considers it an honor to be counted a friend now.

And so, as friends, they talk.  They talk about exile, about freedom and cages.  They talk about baseball and how the Mets are just goddamned awful.  They talk about memes, about nightmares, about the foods they miss and T’Challa’s frankly concerning addiction to sugary breakfast cereal.  They talk about the books Steve is tearing through and Sam’s latest Netflix discoveries.  There is not much else to do but talk, and so they do.

It is a respite, Sam knows, and one which cannot last long.  Bucky has been in a medically sustained coma for six weeks while the drugs complete their work.  Steve had not allowed himself to see his dearest friend through the first brutal weeks of therapy.  But soon, Steve and Bucky will be reunited.  And then… what?

Sam knows Steve; he will not be content in exile forever.  Honor will demand he rejoin the good fight one way or another.  What might he do - surrender himself back to the Army to protect Bucky’s freedom?  Turn vigilante?  Run away to Asgard?

And when Steve leaves, will Sam ever see him again?

Because Sam has spent years saying _I do what he does_ , but…  Sam knows that when Steve leaves Wakanda, Sam will remain.  Maybe not forever, or even for long.  But there is healing here, and answers; pieces of his identity that he can never find in America, as the Falcon, as Senior Airman Wilson.  He has the space here to learn who _Samuel_ is, and that is a blessing he cannot give up, not even to follow Captain America.

“Do you ever think about what it means to reach out and take something?” Sam asks, staring out over the jungle as he picks up a glass of the papaya juice he has become addicted to.  Without waiting for Steve’s response, he continues.  “Coz it’s a big thing, reaching out.  Making that leap of faith.  Surrendering.”  
“Scarier’n jumping out of a plane without a chute,” Steve confirms.  
Sam nods slowly.  “Think it’s worth it?”

Steve is quiet for a long minute, honestly pondering.  That is alright; Sam is comfortable in silence.

“I think…  I _hope_ that we’ve both got it wrong,” Steve eventually says slowly, his voice slipping as it so often does now into the accent and cadence of his childhood.  “We both think it’s jumpin’ out a plane into freefall, not knowin’ if we’ll survive the landing.  But maybe it’s more like trippin’ down a stair.  You’re safe on the ground before your brain’s even caught up to the fact you’re falling.”  
Sam looks at Steve appraisingly.  “Alright, man, who fed you that line?” he asks shrewdly.  “I know you, you are not that poetic.”  
Steve grins, a little bashful.  “I may have had a few late-night talks with Ororo.”  
“You bastard,” Sam gasps, feeling silly and melodramatic.  “I thought late-night talks were _our_ thing! How dare you betray me like this!  Think of the children!” he exclaims, throwing out an arm to indicate Clint, Scott and Wanda.  
“If you’re getting divorced, I’m going with Mom,” Clint volunteers with a lazy grin.  
“Thank you, dear,” Sam nods.  
“Then I suppose I should go with Father,” Wanda says, heaving a theatrical sigh, before they all look expectantly at Scott.  
“Uh… I’m, uh…  I’m running away?” he tries.

Clint makes the buzzer noise as Sam shakes his head disappointedly.

“He gets this from your side of the family,” he informs a chuckling Steve.

He basks in the sunlit warmth of Steve’s laughter, knowing he will not hear it forever.  Thinks, idly, about truth and honor and brothers-in-arms, about promises and all the ways you can love another person.

“I thought I might find you here.”

The sunshine does not fade; it grows in brightness and intensity, and Sam is a helpless sacrifice to the conflagration that explodes from somewhere in his chest.

_I hold with those who favor fire…_

T’Challa walks into the lounge like he owns it, every inch a king; a sun around which Sam could orbit forever.

“Steven, where is your phone?” T’Challa asks, and there is laughter in his voice.  “Doctor Mgebe has been trying to reach you all morning.”

Steve freezes, and Sam sighs as Steve’s sunshine happiness is stifled beneath the weight of his anxiety.

“I… Buck- is everything okay?” he asks, the Eyebrow Furrow of Freedom back full force.  
T’Challa smiles, reassuring.  “She is ready to wake him.  She needs your help.”

Steve stares, stunned into silence for a whole five seconds before he rushes out the door, more uncoordinated than Sam has ever seen him.  Sam shakes his head, trying not to laugh; apparently Steve is taking his _tripping down the stairs_ analogy incredibly literally.

“Samuel,” T’Challa says softly.  “May I speak to you for a moment in private?”

Sam feels his stomach lurch and wonders if he’s tripping down stairs, too.

He follows T’Challa out into the hallway, keeping quiet as the older man guides them to a smaller, more private office space.  Sam glances at the other man as T’Challa closes the door behind them.  His face is placid, but there is something in the set of his shoulders that tells Sam he is nervous, and he wonders when he got so good at reading the implacable king.  He draws a deep breath, and Sam wonders what could be coming.

“Samuel,” T’Challa says; Sam wonders if his name caresses T’Challa’s tongue as much as Sam’s ears.  “I know things have been… strained between us, the last few weeks.  And for that I am sorry.”

Sam’s pulse pounds in his ears at the reminder of the kiss he swears he can still taste.  He swallows hard against a suddenly dry throat.  He has no idea what he is going to say, only that he must say _something_ …  But before he can gather his wits, T’Challa continues.

“I have something for you,” he says, offering Sam a thick folder.

Sam takes it, a shiver flying up his arm as their fingers brush. Swallowing again, he flips through the file.  Then he blinks, turns back to the first page, reads it again.

“What is this?” he forces the question out of a tightening throat.  
“Your genetic profile,” T’Challa responds.  “Several members of the African Union have joined together to create a genetic database.  We hope to offer relatively inexpensive tests to all descendants of the Diaspora within five years.”

Sam stares down at the paperwork.   _Duala.  Ashanti. Igbo._ And…

“N’Jadaka,” Sam breathes.  “I…  I’m Wakandan?”

It does not seem possible; such news belongs in a fairy tale.  How could he be Wakandan?  That is a pipe dream, a fantasy of every black person in America.  That he has sought refuge in a country his ancestors once called home…

“I would like to offer you citizenship, Samuel,” T’Challa says softly.  “Dual citizenship, if you’d like.  But I remember you telling me about searching for home and roots, and-”

Sam does not stop to think or to direct his actions.  He moves on pure instinct, catching T’Challa’s face in his hands a moment before pressing their lips together.

For an eternal, heart-stopping moment, T’Challa is frozen beneath Sam’s assault.  But as Sam stiffens and tries to pull away, T’Challa surges forward, meeting Sam’s urgency with his own.  The kiss escalates until it is almost brutal in its intensity.  The men push and pull against each other, devouring and being devoured, moving in tandem as they are consumed by the flame that has been building between them for months.

Suddenly, T’Challa wrests himself away, and Sam is bereft with the loss.

“Wait,” he says, and Sam is gratified to hear how breathless T’Challa is.  “Samuel, you must know, I did not do this to woo you. You owe me nothing-”  
“I know,” Sam cuts him off, reaching for T’Challa’s hands.  “I… did not handle things well, before. I’m sorry for that.  I… well.  I’ll tell you everything, someday.  But my baggage doesn’t mean that I don’t want this. You.”  He draws a deep breath and takes the leap.  “I’ve found where I’d like to belong.”

T’Challa’s answering smile is the sunrise, and Sam is drawn to him like a sunflower to the light.  As he draws Sam in for another kiss, Sam has to smile.  Steve was right; he was safe on the ground before he’d even realized he was falling.

* * *

Steve runs, with no clear idea what will be waiting for him.

This is not so very unusual.  Indeed, at this point he should inscribe those words on his shield as heraldic sigillary.  Even before his knighthood, that phrase may as well have been Steve’s motto.  He’d never been burdened with an abundance of common sense, Bucky used to love to say; he charged through life like an underfed bull in a china shop.

Steve does not know what he is running toward.  Or who.  He does not know who has emerged from the glass coffin; if it is a broken, lost creature or a cold Russian wind or his Bucky risen from the dead.  He does not know this man or what he wants or how they might fit together.

Steve does not know who is waiting at the end of the hallway.

He does not care.

It is his Bucky.  Whatever has been taken from him, whatever the decades have added; however the puzzle pieces lock together, the image is still Bucky.

Steve is running toward Bucky.  That is all he needs to know.

Steve has always been running toward Bucky.  And is that not the point?  That no matter what twists or turns the path takes, Bucky is always at the end of the line?

The distance shrinks, until there is nothing separating them but a glass door.  Bucky no longer lies frozen in his glass sarcophagus.  He is not awake, but he is warm and breathing, and Steve could cry from relief.  Finally, after months and years of hoping, the moment is finally here; he almost has his Bucky back.

Doctor Mgebe smiles, the corners of her warm eyes crinkling with pride and humor.  “Come, Captain,” she invites, opening the door to Bucky’s room.  
Steve crosses the threshold, his heart in his throat.  “How is he?” he rasps, the words almost too heavy to leave his mouth.  
“He is doing even better than I anticipated,” the doctor rushes to reassure him.  “The Erskine Serum is an amazing substance.  Even the weaker version in Sergeant Barnes’ veins is working miracles to restore his neurological functioning…”

Steve lets the medical jargon flow over and around him in a soothing stream.  He does not attempt to understand the near-foreign language of the healers; just accepts the proof that everything is going to be alright.

“There is one more medicine the Sergeant requires to wake up,” the doctor reveals. “Its application is… unorthodox.  We thought you might both be more comfortable if you were the one to apply it.”  
“Of course,” Steve nods earnestly. “Anything to help.”  
Doctor Mgebe nods, an odd twinkle in her eyes.  “The most efficacious application is to the lips.  The activating ingredient turned out to be saliva.”  
“Wait,” Steve blinks.  “You’re tellin’ me I have to kiss this medicine onto him?”  
The good doctor shrugs.  “I did say it was unorthodox.”

Steve opens and closes his mouth a few times, but he cannot actually muster any valid objections to the doctor’s request.  So he gives up, gamely giving his consent to whatever harebrained scheme the doctors have come up with.

He waits mostly patiently as the healers mix brightly colored liquids together, carefully heating and stirring until the final result is a thin, watery substance not unlike the blue of his former uniform.  He watches, breathless, as the nurses paint a thin coat onto his lips, then Bucky’s.

He is attacked by a sudden flurry of nerves; a sneaking suspicion that he is taking advantage, that he is no better than the Hydra handlers who used Bucky mercilessly for whatever vile purpose they wanted.  He has promised Bucky that he will be safe; does this safety not also include bodily autonomy?

“Quickly, Captain,” Doctor Mgebe urges.  “Before the medicine evaporates.”

Then again, bodily autonomy does not mean much if Bucky is not awake to enjoy it.

Screwing up his courage, Steve leans down and places his blue-tinged lips on Bucky’s.

It is not the way Steve imagined their first kiss going, in the one or two or thousand times he has allowed himself to wonder.  Bucky is usually awake in Steve’s fantasies, for starters.  And he smells like himself, or the self Steve remembers best - clove cigarettes, Vitalis hair tonic, and peppermint, with a whiff of gun oil if Steve is imagining wartime.  This cold, antiseptic hospital smell is all wrong; so too is the hint of stubble, and Bucky’s complete and utter lack of participation in the proceedings.

Steve sighs, slowly pulling away…  Then freezes when he feels Bucky stir beneath him, and respond to his kiss with a soft hum of contentment.   _Oh_ …  Steve stiffens in surprise for all of a second before losing himself in a wave of sensory overload.  Because it is happening; he is _kissing Bucky_ , and Bucky is kissing _back_ , and it is so much better than he ever dared to dream…

“Steve,” Bucky murmurs.

Steve pulls back reluctantly, just far enough to see Bucky’s face.  He can see Bucky, and… oh god, Bucky can see him.  And it _is_ Bucky; _his_ Bucky, staring back at him.  Weary and carrying the weight of decades of horror, but Steve knows that set to Bucky’s shoulders, that blink-and-you’ll-miss-it quirk of his lips.

Steve shudders to a full halt, and has to lock his knees to remain upright.   _Bucky._

“Bucky,” he whispers, too choked up with emotion to manage to say anything more.

Bucky stares up at him, dazed.  Then, before Steve can do anything, Bucky grabs him by the shirt and pulls him down, kissing him again. _Oh_ …  Steve whimpers, steadying Bucky as the kiss deepens and they reveal all the things they’d never said to each other.  It is sunlight and magic, and Steve has never been happier to drown.

The kiss ends with a half-murmured “ _Alexander_ ,” and Steve thinks he might cry. Of all the minute details of their past, he had never expected Bucky to remember that one.  He had not even realized how much he missed that inside joke until he heard it again, and oh, in Bucky’s mouth it sounds like the most beautiful endearment ever invented…

He lurches forward to steady his Hephaestion as Bucky fights his weakened, cold muscles to sit up.  Bucky grunts in approval when he is upright, his eyes - his beautiful warm grey-blue eyes - cataloguing every minute change since the last time they saw each other.  Steve does the same, staring unabashedly at this impossible, miraculous man he has loved since before he knew what love was.

“How do you feel?” he asks, relishing the tiny quirk of Bucky’s lopsided half-smile.  
“Tired.  Cold,” he quips, before his face turns serious.  “I ain’t the same, Stevie.  Ain’t ever gonna be like it was, before the war.”  
“I know,” Steve nods.  We’ve both changed.  But I’m still with ya, pal.”  
Bucky’s smile is smaller than it used to be, but Steve is dazzled all the same. “End of the line.”

It sounds like a perfectly happy ending to Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky’s kiss was inspired by this snippet of poetry by Pablo Neruda, a prompt given to me by Bailey when I complained I couldn’t figure out how to make Steve and Bucky kiss. “In one kiss, you’ll know all I haven’t said.” [Also, in case you were wondering, Doctor Mgebe and T'Challa totally engineered that medicine specifically to make Steve and Bucky finally kiss. Because T'Challa is a not-so-closet romantic and got impatient.]


End file.
